Today was the first time I changed my nephew’s diaper.
I knew it when I was carrying him, as he was helping me scoop a bit of sugar into my morning coffee. His behind rumbled and bubbled, and I froze. The smell came up and wafted through the kitchen. Whew. I was alone and I wasn’t going to let him run around with a poop filled diaper.
Shit shit shit!! Don’t worry, Auntie is going to change your diaper.
With one hand to keep Hudson from moving and another hand fumbling for wet wipes, I finally found the clear white box of wipes. I cleaned him up, rolling and throwing away the dirty diaper just like I’ve seen my sister do.
I straightened up and sighed in accomplishment.
Then I realized I had a piece of poo on my knuckle.
A piece of poop, perfectly smeared and brown.
I shrieked and used a wet wipe to clean it off, while Hudson stood there patiently while grabbing my black Kirkland sweater. Surprisingly, he didn’t fuss and he just stared at me and if he could talk, he’d say..
Your first rodeo, huh? Don’t worry, I got the time.
I helped him get dressed and he went off to play with his toy trains while I went to scrub my hand with soap.
It took me 15 minutes to change his diaper when it takes Jas and Zi 3 minutes.
And then I realized a small thing
that love is the willingness to be there for someone
that love is an action—to love after everything and anything
the tiring counts to wake up in the dead of night, the hysterics and tantrums thrown, the conversations to carve the best future for a child, even being hit with a wooden toy truck, and to clean up poo
love is what parents do, and I admire
them.
